The end... finally

As journalists, we can often take for granted the perks of travelling for rugby tours.

I would say glamour, but the flying cockroaches - if that is even a thing - that sprung out of the radiator of one particular venue in Versailles last year would suggest there are far better words to use.

Amongst the continual staring at departure boards and the knowledge that anything, anywhere is effectively a desk to crack out your laptop and tap out some stories, there are plenty of upsides.

Sometimes, such as on Friday when those watching on TV back home were denied the first-half of Wales’ clash with Queensland Reds, you remember just how important it is to be out on the ground.

Sadly, proper rugby tours outside of the Lions’ quadrennial pilgrimages will likely soon be a thing of the past, at least as we know them. If that’s not enough to remind us scribes what a luxury it is to head off for a few weeks at the end of each season, then not much else will.

Even in my wedding speech, I was sure to make note of the fact I might sometimes moan about the standard of accommodation more than someone who has been to Cape Town, Dublin, Edinburgh, Rome, Paris, Nice, Bordeaux, Marseille, Lyon, Nantes, Sydney, Melbourne and Brisbane in the last five years should.

But sometimes, it’s so easy to do. It’s been a long season. A very, very long and arduous season.

And even this three-week tour at the end of it all has felt fairly drawn out. When the Irish and English journalists were heading home, the Welsh travelling pack were off to Brisbane. Alright, the violins won’t be out for that one.

But, as glad as I was to experience State of Origin in person - if every sporting event I covered consisted of a sneaky pint of Australian cider in the stands followed by a trip into both sheds to witness the joy and despair first-hand, I’d probably be less of a miserable pain to those who know - it did feel like a week that few really wanted.

421 days after the players had first filed into last year’s World Cup training camp, the tacked-on week in an admittedly lovely and sunny Brisbane felt like six days too long.

It felt considerably longer given how it played out. Watching the Wales captaincy become a circus was a suitable reminder that, often, there’s no such thing as new stories in Welsh rugby.

The only thing that changes is how often they repeat themselves. If you need any better example of that, the unfortunate news that one of Wales’ staff out here fell over a curb and hurt their ankle on the day of the Reds game particularly struck a chord with me.

Because that’s exactly how I started my World Cup in Bordeaux, foolishly falling over a drop curb hours after Wales had beaten Fiji. No new stories, just the same ones repeating themselves.